For the first time in a week, I don’t feel like crying myself to sleep like a weak baby. Whatever cold or flu this one was, I don’t recall having felt so fucking miserable.

Add on top of it that I’ve been trying to work on my resume and looking through job listings (at those brief times when my read and rheumy eyes could focus without tearing), life ain’t exactly the banquet I’ve been hoping to enjoy. Now I’m behind in everything I planned to do this week, and on top of it, haven’t seen or talked to any of the friends with whom I need or want to catch up.

Aggravating.

A lot of my anxiety about finding a job is less about my getting shitcanned yet again six months ago or the money. I do worry money will run out, and I’ll end up homeless without even 49 sweaters to wear in the streets, because I’ve already given them all away to charity. Would it be the definition of irony if I end up in a shelter and someone hands me something I used to wear?

No, while all of those thoughts do enter my head, that’s not my central area of anxiety. I think most of it has to do with the life and times of old Pat.

(Incidentally, right now is the anniversary of her leaving the mortal coil. Well, I guess it is. Maybe tomorrow or Tuesday is the anniversary of our discovering she was actually gone. I thought it was the 18th, but my sister said tomorrow. Hard to say exactly, though, since she went quietly and alone, and the house was freezing cold.

By the way, both the police and the oil company guy said that it was common for old people to stop oil delivery (or not call for a fresh delivery) right around the time they die, like that’s part of their whole plan. Why pay for oil if you ain’t gonna use it, right? It’s kind of sad, yet so compact and efficient, like folks just know when it’s time. I don’t know, though. For me, I might leave all the lights on and the heat cranked up and leave in a blaze of glory, power consumption-wise anyway.)

Maybe it’s work or maybe it’s the anniversary of her being gone or maybe it’s my naturally tendency to worry, but how I spend my time to make money to live is big on my mind right now. And, the only thing I am sure about is that probably the best way to honor the memory of my mother is to deliberately not live the way she did.

I don’t mean the good parts. She was hella loyal to her family and her kids, even as she bitched and moaned. And, even though she was never demonstrative and closed off all outward manifestations of affection, when something went wrong or when I saw her at moments of truly losing someone, I could tell there was a depth of love. She was also a great provider, and, I’m told, a great teacher.

All of those things (well except never demonstrating affection) I would emulate.

No, the thing I don’t want from her life is always living to not quite get what you want. Like she never, ever took a sick day from work for herself. She dragged herself in and did her job no matter what. In the end, the town made her feel old and used and forced her into retirement essentially against her will.

Obviously, it’s complicated, but she literally suffered for her job and felt none of that loyalty back. Her experience, and my own, taught me that I don’t want that. I hope to take every sick day or vacation day and enjoy my time, if I work for someone else. Or, if I’m lucky enough to do my own thing, I want to remember that putting in that kind of effort and energy is of benefit to me, and if it’s not I want the presence of mind to see the risk-benefit analysis.

She was also good with money and had gone to college for business. From the circumstances of being a widow with five kids, though, she became a teacher, because it was the only gig that she could do in the days before child care centers. I think she wanted a nice, neat office job where she could use that part of her brain, but it didn’t happen.

She was also good with her hands and crafty, and as far as I can tell was always doing something artsy fartsy. (There were ceramic figurines (think Hummel) around our house from days long past when she had taken some kind of ceramic figurine molding and painting class. And, there was a veritable town of dollhouses left in her house, each one built and furnished and decorated by her. And those were just the ones she kept.)

I think she would have like to get formal training in painting, but she held herself back from even taking an adult ed class. I’m not sure why. She had a friend who went back to school for an art degree. When she talked about her friend’s success and even her scholarship trip to France, you could see the excitement and, I guess, longing.

I don’t want to have those kind of unfulfilled dreams, especially if it’s as simple as paying a few dollars and driving to the local night school.

And, so I write this bullshit on the Internet. I hope to better understand and better achieve what I do want.

In the end, while looking for a job, I think I have one life’s goal. I want to die at break even. Financially, I want to have enough money to live comfortably and not have any left over that I could have or should have used to live. Emotionally, I want to feel like I’ve extended myself or tried new things or continued learning. I don’t want to feel worn out or broken or used.

Do you know anyone hiring for something like that?